Rationally, I understand that spammers employ tantalizing subject lines to get people to click on their e-mails. No, I don’t think my in-box is really full of Angelina Jolie nude shots, tragic scenes of new earthquakes in China, or Rolex watches at 80% off. But for some reason, when these creeps tell me “You look stupid, cnelson,” I want to run to the gym and do a thousand crunches.

I would say that these subject lines are targeted to insecure females, but they seem to follow right after Viagra offers, so that can’t be accurate. The truth, I suppose is even worse: insults make for effective advertising.

Telling me I look stupid isn’t actually such a far cry from the ad tactic made popular by women’s magazines, which tell me I could look better, much better, if I buy more stuff. It’s a subtle difference. Not “you’re ugly,” but “you could be beautiful.” Cosmo doesn’t tell me I’m bad in bed, it merely offers suggestions for being a better slut.

My spam, however, tells me not only that I suck, but that I suck on the outside (inner suckitude can be covered up by makeup and hair products and by mastering the art of making your man feel like a porn star). It’s not very easy to insult my intelligence, but my appearance is a trickier area. Hello, neurosis! I want to lash back; click the damn link. Tell that spam who’s on top! Which is exactly the response they’re trying for.

It’s nasty psychological warfare, man. Every in-box for itself! Maybe I should form a support group for emotionally-thin-membraned folks such as myself who prefer their computers to say “I love you. You’re hot. You’re brilliant. And you don’t need to spend a dime on your beauty regime. Just upgrade to Windows XXXP for a 10% tithe of your salary.”

I’m in! Just show me where to click.

When Rush comes on the radio I feel very much like I imagine the American public felt when they first heard “talkies.” Geddy Lee grates on my nerves so badly I have to switch the station immediately, or else risk driving headlong into oncoming traffic. I feel exactly the same way about A Prairie Home Companion. I would gladly subject myself to a month of fingernails on the chalkboard or even a pro-life sermon if I could be spared hearing the man from Minnesota ruin another poem for all eternity. Message to the fine folks at Gitmo: scrap the waterboards and put 2112 on repeat. Follow it up with mid-afternoon NPR for a quick confession. It’s failproof.

I know, Geddy Lee’s lyrics are brilliant, and Keillor’s a genius. I just don’t hear it. As far as I’m concerned, Rush has no lyrics. They just have a whiny Canuck saying something or another in a tone of voice that makes me wish I had a life insurance policy so I could drive off a bridge and be spared the pain, yet still pay off my mortgage.

As far as Keillor is concerned, I’ve been known to run across the room to wrestle my boyfriend away from the radio. That stupid detective bit makes me want to resurrect Raymond Chandler, stick a bottle in his hand and a pen in the other and show that baritone so-and-so how a real noir writer gets busy.

They’re both awful.

But which is worse?

Tomorrow: The loser takes on Rosie Perez!

First off, a disclaimer: I’ve only been to three yoga classes, and two of them were at Jivamukti, which merits a whole entry to itself. (Any facility with an elevator from the eleventh century that takes 20 minutes to go three floors should probably tone down the attitude, for starters.) My third yoga experience was at New York Sports, wherein roughly two dozen people were doing headstands at seven am. I consider myself in fine stead if I can stand upright at that hour. 

Personally, I think there’s a conspiracy between yoga teachers and the manufacturers of cotton capri pants, which just weren’t such high-ticket items way back in, oh, say, the good old pre-yoga days.  Somehow, by hiring skinny women with kick-ass shoulders to sit in front of the room, they’ve managed to sell overpriced workout tights and twenty-buck pieces of purple rubber, along with mind-numbing “clarity” and some false promise of inner peace. The People’s Temple offered similar results, with the added benefit of sugary beverages and a tax-free, tropical location.

The poor marketing of eastern philosophy isn’t even what gets me, though. It’s my paranoia that those mirrors in front of the room are really one-way, and the entire staff of the gym is behind them, along with the Republic of China (manufacturers of said capri pants), laughing their sculpted butts off at millions of misled Americans, desperate to twist ourselves into poses that just aren’t natural, no matter what kind of tree-hugging names you give them. One day we will be on Yoga Tube. Or you will. I bought my footage back from the Chinese, for a few bucks and a plug for the Beijing Olympics.

Myanmar, schmyanmar. Ra, Ra, Ra!

This year will be the first election I’m voting for, instead of against someone. And I’ve been voting for half my life. Obviously, that’s disturbing. More disturbing is the fact that I still know very little about my chosen candidate’s policies on, well, anything. It’s enough that he’s a black Democrat. Scary, I know. Obama could triple taxes and I’d pay, gladly. Just because he can string sentences with more than two syllables together and wears suits instead of blue jeans.

My standards have been shot all to hell by W.

Of course, I blame George Bush for every instance of American lowbrow culture which doesn’t please me: reality TV, Iraq, Wranglers. I am ashamed to admit I enjoy celebrity gossip, so I can’t hold the man responsible for Katie and Tom (that’s Oprah’s fault).

Call it blind faith. Or Stockholm Syndrome. Whatever it is, I’ve been so devoid of politcal hope for so long that it feels like a miracle to want anything to do with Washington, D.C.

Finally, the miracle is within reach.